I blamed the trees for quite a long time, without even realising it. I’d wake up every morning and log on to Bluesky maybe 10 minutes after opening my eyes, just as I used to wake up and log on to Twitter within seconds of being conscious. I’ve got better with time, you see? I’m practically offline. Give me another decade and I may make it through a whole hour of existing without scrolling through a microblogging platform like it’s my job.
Is it my job, though? I suppose that would be my question. I’m a journalist and so I need to be aware of both the news and what all the relevant people make of it. I’ve spent my whole career tethered to this timeline that updates itself constantly, and I don’t know how I’d function without it. Will I have to find out soon? That’s my worry. It’s that forest I kept missing.
For months now, I’ve whinged and complained about the dourness of Bluesky; the fact that I increasingly feel I have to steel myself before opening the tab again. Social media used to be so fun and stimulating, and its ability to keep you simultaneously informed and entertained was unparalleled. At its best, Twitter felt like it could place you at the very centre of the world, and in the company of some of the funniest, sharpest people you’d ever meet.
When was the last time Bluesky even vaguely made me feel like that? It was the question I went back to, again and again, as I watched some of Britain’s most pessimistic 43-year-olds do their best to bring everyone down with them. I used to love text-based social media precisely because of the wit on show. I’d become increasingly worried that, in a post-Musk world, I’d managed to end up on a needlessly humourless platform instead.
It wasn’t fair of me, but I ended up deeply resenting them. I’d scroll past every scold, every pedant, every mansplainer and every sanctimonious poster and I’d huff and roll my eyes. I held them responsible for the loss of something I’d once loved so thoroughly, and wished they could see the error of their ways, and either change or shut up. Then I blinked and took a step back.
I went to have a little look at my old timeline on Twitter and found it to mostly be unappealing. I spoke to friends who chose Threads as their lifeboat instead and they reported feeling quite bored and listless too. I looked around me and realised that the problem wasn’t really the platform, but everything else instead.
I’ve now spent 15 years posting about the news online every single day, and in the early days it felt so fun and thrilling, even if the world wasn’t really a perfect place. Eventually 2016 came around and it felt like everything we’d held dear was falling apart around us, but social media gave us a sense of community, and helped us get through what we assumed, bravely, was an unpleasant blip.
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Things sometimes got better after that but mostly they got worse and, in 2026, though not everything is awful, anyone following current affairs closely will have this deep sense of foreboding embedded in their soul. Can the world become a better, safer, kinder place again? Sure, probably! I’d just struggle to bet on it right now, and I believe I’ve now found the culprit behind the murder of my timeline.
News-focused, text-based social media will always be one of my life’s great loves, but I guess it may end up dying if all we have to discuss is worrying, enraging, or both. I used to judge the people who fled to Instagram and elsewhere, as I believed they merely shielded themselves from the reality of the world, but I now wonder if they had it right. If I must choose between pleasant denial and relentless focus on the daily horrors, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the righteous call for much longer.
